


Sword Swallower

by mix_kid_ao3



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Death, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Genderfluid Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt Whump Week (The Witcher), Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Other, Painful Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Poverty, Prostitution, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Work, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Transphobia, Victim Blaming, one passing mention of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25085653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mix_kid_ao3/pseuds/mix_kid_ao3
Summary: After the events of Blaviken Geralt is shunned near everywhere he goes. At some point, his money runs out and there is nothing to left offer except his body. Lambert, Eskel, and Vesemir have some thoughts on what Geralt has brought to their reputation. Jaskier sees a pretty man at a tavern and wants to make him smile.Written for Day 4: Betrayal of Geralt Whump Week
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Male Character(s), mentioned past Ezkel/Geralt
Comments: 27
Kudos: 226





	Sword Swallower

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to WingedQuill , ChaosWriting, battleships , and, as always, my number one cheerleader nanero11 for indulging me. ChaosWriting suggested genderfluid Jaskier and I adore him for it.
> 
> It isn't especially relevant to the fic but I like to think Geralt is demisexual in this one.

Geralt is desperate.

Hunts have not been profitable as of late, and his provisions have long since run out. Witchers have always had problems with people refusing to hold their ends of contracts but since Blaviken it’s only gotten worse. Humans are more distrustful of witchers in general and they loath Geralt in particular. 

Geralt doesn’t have the healing potions to deal with the frostbite burning across his hands and cheeks. He hasn’t had the time or resources to brew in months. No one will sell him alchemic ingredients, and there are only so many he can find on his own. His fingers are cramped and numb with the cold. His body feels dangerously sluggish and feverish sweat has been gathering in his armor all day. 

The pace of his heart is too slow to keep his body warm. Geralt is going to die if he doesn’t warm up soon, he knows it, but he hasn’t the money for room nor brothel. He imagines what his family will say when they hear of his pitiful death, frozen on the side of a road. He thinks Vesemir would cry, but he would be angry when he learned Geralt hadn’t sold his horse before the cold got to her. It’s a strange thought, that Vesemir would mourn his son’s poor treatment of a horse more than his passing. Eskel might cry, but he’d more likely lock himself in his room for a week before burying his emotions in sex. Lambert would be ashamed of him. He knows no matter how much they deny it they each hold resentment towards him. His new reputation as the Butcher of Blaviken has made their lives harder too, not just his own. 

It does little to boost his morale, thinking of how he’s let his family down, but there’s not much else to consider aside from the blistering cold. The guilt kept him from returning to the keep this year, he’s not letting go of it just because he’s cold. There’s a tavern a ways up the road, but he doubts he’ll get warmed up enough to spare himself a sorry fate before they realize who he is. It’ll be a miracle if he gets past the door. 

Still, Geralt pushes on. He can feel the warmth of the tavern wash over him from where he stands in the doorway. The drastic change in temperature burns Geralt’s too-sensitive skin, makes the frostbite sting, and his muscles ache. He steps inside. 

The tavern is bustling despite the sun having long set. The smell of hard cider and stale sweat assaults Geralt’s nose. He sneezes, and it feels like something rattles in his head and chest. There’s a sheep cooking somewhere, and the smell makes Geralt’s mouth water. He can’t recall the last time he ate, but he knows he hasn’t had meat in at least three months. 

“Oi!” Someone calls over the crowd. 

Geralt’s head snaps the source of the noise on instinct. The call wasn’t directed at him and no one is on their way to shoo him out of the inn like a stray cat just yet. He moves towards the hearth, pulls his hood lower over his head and makes sure his hair is properly tucked in. There’s nothing he can do about his swords or eyes, but he won’t let his hair be the thing that gives him away. 

There’s a spot on the floor next to the fire, and Geralt’s body suddenly feels like it’s made of lead. He leans against the wall and watches through bleary eyes as patrons and waitstaff move about. His eyelids keep sinking lower, lower, and Geralt is losing the energy to pull them back up. Despite the warmth surrounding him, it’s likely Geralt will die if he lets himself sleep. Dying here, where it’s warm and comfortingly ambient, doesn’t sound too bad when the alternative is dying alone in the snow. 

Geralt’s eyelids droop one last time, and he listens as more water is put between himself and the noises of the tavern. They come through distorted, senseless, until they blend into one continually changing sound. His body is falling now, and there’s nothing but warmth and people. If he tries, he can imagine he’s in the mess hall at Kaer Morhen, before the sacking when it had been full of life. 

-

The tavern is reasonably populated for noon. A bard sings in the middle of the room, though his audience seems uninterested. Geralt slinks towards the nearest corner. There’s a booth where he can see the room and have his back to the wall at the same time. It’s nice, but he would feel better if he could see the door. That particular comfort doesn’t seem to be in his cards today.

His hair isn’t pulled back, he’s lost his last tie, and the fact makes him anxious so he pulls at the edges of his hood as he sits. He props his swords on the booth next to him and makes himself comfortable.

A barmaid saunters over with a bored expression. Bored is better than afraid. Or hungry, Geralt thinks bitterly. He orders an ale and drops a few coins into her waiting hand. The bard starts a new song, postures against a stool and a beam as he makes a crude joke about abortion. The crowd boos and Geralt smiles into his drink.

He watches the bard from the corner of his eye, just because he’s the most animated thing in the room, and absently calculates expenses. It’s hot, uncomfortably so even for Geralt, meaning if he stays just outside of town he won’t need a room. He needs to restock his bandages, and it couldn’t hurt to buy more potion ingredients, but those things can wait. Food is what’s important, and he’s running low. The bard picks a couple of rolls the crowd has thrown at him from the floor and stuffs them into his waistband. 

It’s almost a nice enough day that Geralt could consider dosing in his corner. It wouldn’t be comfortable but he’s so rarely tired when he should be that he knows better than to deny himself a nap when the urge strikes. Instead, the bard takes a drink from the barmaid’s tray and sits across from Geralt. He looks out the window. 

The bard expects something, Geralt can tell, but he doesn’t want to think of what. A review, he asks for, and the witcher knows better than to hope that’s all but lets himself anyways. He decides to humor the bard for a moment. 

“I know who you are,” he says, and the conversation is over. 

Geralt stands and gathers his things but the bard keeps talking. 

“You’re the witcher,” he calls. “Geralt of Rivia.”

It’s enough to get the attention of a young man, one desperate enough to contract Geralt for help. He thinks he may make it out yet unscathed, devils may not be real but stealing men and vermin are, both easy enough to scare off. The boy gives Geralt the money with a vote of confidence, then leans in and snags a lock of hair that’s fallen from his hood. He holds it to his nose and the pull of his breath is cool on Geralt’s cheeks. 

“Come find me after and we can talk about… additional services.” 

Geralt bites his tongue, lets his eyes run over the rest of the tavern before he levels the boy with a stare. He nods, albeit with some trepidation, because the money is nice and he’s grown used to boys and men thinking they’re worth his time. His compliance assures that he walks away with his dignity mostly intact. Geralt’s skin crawls with the phantom hands of all those who have made the same offer. He distracts himself by recalculating his expenses taking into account the hundred and fifty ducat in his pocket. 

He can deal with one more self-important boy for a night out of the rain. 

Geralt leaves the tavern and blinks in the sunlight. The bard is still following him. 

-

Just before Geralt can sink into his final sleep he is kicked. His head bangs against the wall as he jolts back to reality. There is a man standing over him, hands on hips. He is angry, though he does not appear to recognize Geralt yet. There are far fewer people in the tavern than there had been when he sat down. 

He rubs the sore spot on his crown. 

The man calls Geralt a variety of names interspersed with more than enough expletives. He is, understandably, upset that Geralt slept in his establishment without paying and demands compensation. It is clear that Geralt has no money to give and there is nothing of value in his bags. 

The man pulls Geralt’s hood away and the witcher curls in on himself expecting a kick. Instead, the man’s hand travels to cup his jaw. The thumb resting on Geralt’s cheekbone is strong and steady as the man studies him. The following pat and muttered “you’ll do” tells Geralt he is satisfactory, for what he doesn’t know.

Geralt’s head swims as he’s lifted to his feet. His legs refuse to hold his weight so he leans into the man. He’s led to a back room, and the walk leaves him breathless. The man deposits him on a mattress. 

Geralt takes a moment to assess his surroundings. The bed is low to the ground but the fire is warm. Geralt’s hands flex in the mountain of sheets and furs. The man is of middle age, not especially notable in any way. There are objects scattered about the room to suggest he has children, and likely a wife. 

It strikes Geralt has tragic—and maybe a bit ironic—when the man begins fiddling with the straps of his armor. He gets as far as Geralt’s shoulder pads before he’s demanding Geralt rid himself of the leather. He thinks about fighting, or simply walking out, but his legs feel boneless and the bed is so soft. It doesn’t cross his mind that he’s made a mistake until he’s already unlaced his armor and halfway out his shirt. 

A grin slowly bleeds onto the man’s face. The flesh of Geralt’s chest is easy to hide under clothes, just enough for people to assume it’s muscle rather than fat. Naked, however, there is no room for doubt. Geralt’s hands still on the strings of his trousers and the man steps closer.

He reaches for Geralt’s chest. The cold of his hands sends a shiver down Geralt’s spine. Calloused thumbs run over his nipples while the rest of the fingers kneed at his flesh. Geralt is hardly ashamed of his body, he knows he is a man and no flatness of his chest will further that, but discomfort buds in his stomach with the attention regardless. 

The hands run down his sides, flit over the cut of Geralt’s muscles and the jut of his hips, before hooking into the edge of his trousers. He pulls them away and drops them onto the rest of the witcher’s clothes in a pile on the floor. The cold bites at Geralt and the man leans him back until his back connects with the sheets. His legs are spread and his cunt exposed to the cool air. He shivers again. He can’t seem to stop. 

“Isn’t this a surprise, “ the man hums. 

His tone makes Geralt want to scream, or actually, it makes him want to cry. He tired and cold, so many feelings get confusing. 

His folds are pried apart and two spit-slick fingers enter him. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, made worse when the fingers part inside him. The man’s nails scratch at his walls but he ignores Geralt’s displeased grunts. 

“Look how you open,” the man says more to himself than to Geralt. 

It takes him a moment to gather the energy to mumble a reply.

“Just shut up and fuck me.”

A third finger is added, quick enough Geralt knows it’s meant to hurt him, and he whines in the back of his throat. It’s too much too fast and the warmth he’d gathered drifting by the fire is leaving him. Fingers and tongue alternate until Geralt is wet and within moments the man’s pants are off. He pushes in as deep as he can. Geralt’s cunt burns with the stretch. 

“‘S too much,” he slurs. 

The witcher reaches a hand down, to do what he doesn’t know. The man’s hips rear back before driving forward again. An ache begins in time with Geralt’s heart, flaring with the man’s thrusts. He sets a quick pace, pumps himself in and out without so much as acknowledging Geralt’s pained whimpers. 

“Thought you wanted me to fuck you?” he teases. “Always wanted to fuck a witcher. So high and mighty, look at you now, freak. Are you a man they made into a woman? I think not, with how needy your pretty little pussy is. Poor little girl, don’t worry, I know you’re not a man. I’ll treat you right.”

The witcher counts boards in the ceiling past the man’s shoulder and distractedly pities his wife rather than answering. He thinks of prostitutes that treated him like glass as soon as his clothes were off and the few that had chased him out. He thinks of Eskel’s hands, big and soft even when they were exploring teens. He lets the thoughts come to him so he isn’t alone, freezing in a tavern’s backroom while the owner fucks into him. 

When the man spills he collapses onto the bed next to Geralt. He isn’t immediately chased out so Geralt pulls the blankets over himself. His cunt protests the movement, and his mind denies that he has a cunt at all. Wrapped in furs and uncomfortably wet, Geralt closes his eyes.

-

The bard, Jaskier, seems intent on following Geralt. He’s annoyingly talkative, and in the heat his words only feed Geralt’s blooming headache. He seems to have visions of accompanying Geralt on future hunts, but Geralt knows he’ll grow bored after just one. There is no glamor to be found on the Path. If the hunt does not scare the bard off, then frustration will. Jaskier does not have the money to be worth Geralt’s time.

“I could be your barker, “ Jaskier prattles on, as if Geralt wants or needs any more attention. “Spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, the Sword Swallower.”

Something sharp wrenches in the witcher’s chest. He knows what he is called, he has heard the names on far too many villagers’ lips before they spit on him to be unaware, but to hear it spoken so freely stirs a myriad of dark feelings in him. He is not proud of his titles. They do nothing save add to his and his fellow witchers’ hardship. 

Geralt beckons the bard and punches him so hard the wind leaves him. 

The bard still follows.

-

Despite his guilt, Geralt returns to Kaer Morhen. 

What had been a desperate effort to keep from freezing to death became commonplace. Most are reluctant to exchange money with the Butcher of Blaviken, but many can be swayed to accept his body instead. There is a thrill in forcing a witcher to his knees, and even more in a witcher of Geralt’s circumstances. While this has assured his survival for the past year, he refuses to be caught so vulnerable as the first time. 

He has yet to buy another horse, he won’t let another die because of him, and so there is no reason to visit the stables. There is a familiarity in the stone walls of Kaer Morhen. His hands trace the walls as he moves to his room. It’s the same as he left it—bed made, empty potion bottles on the nightstand, sketchbook forgotten on a shelf—except for a thick layer of dust. He drops his bags near the foot of the bed and breathes in deep. 

Geralt hears the others before he sees them. Lambert announces his presence the moment he arrives by screaming it from the bottom of the main stairs. The scrape of furniture overhead tells Geralt that Vesemir is rearranging the furniture, as he always does within the first week of his arrival. Geralt knows the banging of pots and pans is Eskel when the smell of curry filters up to his room. 

He waits as long as possible before revealing his homecoming, staring at the ceiling and tracing the drawings carved into his bedframe while he stalls. Eventually, Eskel rings the dinner bell, and that’s the end of it. Geralt heaves himself up and runs a hand through his hair. He knows he looks bad, too pale even for him, sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks, but he does his best to make himself presentable. 

Lambert decks him under the eye the moment he steps into the kitchen.

-

The devil turns out to be a sylvan and Geralt meets Filavandrel, king of the elves. It’s a depressing encounter, not that Geralt would have expected any different. Both he and the bard narrowly avoid having their throats cut. He gives the elves his hundred and fifty ducat to assuage some of his guilt, resigning himself to seeking out the young man who’d given it to him in the first place. He only hopes the boy is still interested. 

Jaskier praises Geralt from where he toddles behind, the beginnings of a song on his lips, and Geralt prepares for their inevitable split. It seems one near-death experience was not enough to dissuade the bard, as he promises yet again to change the public’s opinion of him. 

Geralt yanks Roach to a stop to glare at the bard. He is tired and there is work to be done, work that he might have been able to go without if the bard hadn’t run his mouth to the elves. 

“What do you want, bard?” he demands. 

Jaskier has the audacity to look confused. His hands still momentarily, then begin drumming at the body of Filavandrel’s lute. 

“I want to write songs,” he says unsurely. “Good ones, songs full of adventure. And for that I need stories.”

The witcher growls. He can smell Jaskier’s nervousness, can hear the spike in his heart rate. 

“No, you don’t.” Jaskier opens his mouth but Geralt refuses to give him the time to speak. “Or at least that’s not all you want. You want stories? I bet you do, about how you fucked the woman witcher, brought the Sword Swallower to her knees. You couldn’t buy me with what you earn in a year bard, fuck off.”

Geralt kicks Roach into a gallop, leaving Jaskier to flounder in the dust. 

He finds the young man, promises he’s dealt with the problem even though he has no way of knowing the sylvan won’t come around again, and lives up to his moniker as the Sword Swallower. He leaves Posada with a hundred ducat and a bitter flavor in his mouth. It feels like an insult to the two and a half hundred he could have had. 

Jaskier catches up to him a mile outside the town. 

-

Geralt doubles over, touching what will surely be a bruise within the next hour. Eskel slaps Lambert and drags him to the other side of the room by his collar.

“Nice to see you too Lam,” Geralt says. 

Vesemir gives Geralt a once over as he rights himself. 

“You look like shit,” he says. 

Geralt shrugs. The older witcher gives him an unimpressed look. Vesemir scolds Lambert for picking fights and the ensuing argument distracts him long enough for Eskel to bring the bowls and curry to the table. 

Dinner is silent for the most part, the air tense. Geralt does his best to take up as little space as possible. He wishes he hadn’t put his hair up, maybe then he would have a shield between himself and the other wolves. He can feel Lambert seething across the table, and Vesemir’s motions are too stiff to denote anything except dissatisfaction. Eskel hasn’t looked at him yet. 

It’s Lambert that breaks the silence, as it always is. 

“So we’re not going to talk about Geralt screwing us all over by murdering ten people then letting people fuck him like a whore?”

Geralt sucks in a breath too fast, chokes on his curry, and feels himself flush with shame. He’d hoped news of his less reputable deeds hadn’t come to the others’ attention just yet, or that they would chalk it up to meaningless conjecture. The realization that he won’t be able to deny it makes Geralt’s eyes sting. 

“Lam, we’re at the fucking table. Can it wait?” Eskel groans. 

“You’re saying no one has come up and tried to fuck you? No one had asked you if you had a cunt?”

Eskel ducks his head and dread sinks like a stone in Geralt’s stomach. They weren’t supposed to be involved in any way. They weren’t even supposed to know about Geralt whoring himself, much less be propositioned as a result. There isn’t enough air in the room. 

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t what? Mean for us to hear about it?” Lambert’s voice is cold. “Well, we fucking did. Just because your cunt gets needy and you like the coin doesn’t mean you get to ruin the rest of our reputations, fucking slag.”

Eskel stays silent and Geralt bows his head. He feels too nauseous to eat. He can’t explain himself either. He’s going to throw up if he opens his mouth. 

“Watch your language,” Vesemir scolds. Lambert scoffs. “Eskel, how do you feel about it?” 

Eskel hesitates and as Geralt waits with bated breath it feels as if nothing has ever been so important as the other witcher’s, his best friend and first love’s, answer.

“... It would be nice if he told them we weren’t all like that.”

“Not—” Geralt chokes on his own words “—not whores or not girls?”

“Not whores _or_ girls—you know I didn’t mean it like that Geralt! Just—we aren’t all like you, in fact, you’re the only one like you. I just don’t want people asking me if I have a quim on jobs, alright?”

Geralt feels cold. And hot. He’s burning with shame on the outside and freezing with betrayal and guilt on the inside. The apologetic look on Eskel’s face does nothing to soothe him. Lambert looks like the cat that got the cream, all smug satisfaction. He’s won the argument. Vesemir just stares down at his plate. Geralt is alone. 

He nods slowly, stands on shaking legs, and gives naught but a mumbled excuse before running back to his room. 

The winter seems to last forever. 

-

Jaskier tells him time and time again that he is not interested in fucking Geralt because he has a cunt. 

He is, however, interested in fucking Geralt in a general manner, and the witcher isn’t quite sure how to take that. 

Geralt tries to shake the bard for months. With each unsuccessful attempt, Jaskier only reiterates his respect for Geralt as a man and as a person. It’s something that no one has ever done before. 

When his mother had left him it was on a whim that Vesemir chose to bring him to the keep. He was promised a boy and was left with a little girl who claimed she was a boy. Rather than leave a child to starve, Vesemir had humored Geralt, taught him how to be a witcher, and when he still would not admit his femininity it was accepted that Geralt be allowed to complete the trials. There were too few parents willing to let their children become witchers, they could not afford to nitpick the bodies of those given freely. 

Jaskier’s continued insistence on the importance of self-proclaimed genders seems strangely personal, but the sentiment puts something at ease in Geralt. The bard reveals after some months that he is of a similar disposition, though not the same. Most days, Jaskier claims neither male nor female, preferring to allow people to draw conclusions as they please. A guessing game, he calls it when Geralt asks. There are a select few days where the bard is more firmly aligned, usually with femininity. 

The bard’s gender is an interesting thing to observe, so different from Geralt’s own and yet exactly the same. 

They fall in love at some indeterminable point. Geralt shows Jaskier fields where the flowers grow thickest, teaches him how to fight, buys him shiny trinkets, all the things he things the bard will enjoy. Jaskier gives him everything, and Geralt does his best to give back.

Jaskier asks where Geralt goes in the winter, and Geralt tells him he travels. When he asks why Geralt tells him of the cost of being hated, the cost of being a witcher and a butcher. He asks about Geralt’s family, and where they had been when Geralt was shunned, starving and freezing— _dying_. It hurts to talk about Lambert’s scorn, Eskel’s quiet agreeance, Vesemir’s unwillingness to intervene, even decades later. 

Jaskier cries, then he vows to murder any other wolf witcher he comes across. The promise gives him mixed feelings. On one hand, Jaskier’s devotion, his _care_ , makes warmth bloom in Geralt’s chest. On the other, some part of Geralt still wishes them well, wants his family to be a part of his life. It’s confusing. 

Jaskier keeps Geralt’s prostitution out of his music, and soon enough the propositions decrease. Eventually, the propositions become so few and far between it’s like they never happened. Jaskier boosts his reputation enough that he is rarely unable to find work, and when he can’t Jaskier brings in enough coin he doesn’t have to worry. It’s new, having the praise of the people and the respect of his lover, and Geralt finds himself happier than he can ever recall being. He doesn’t know how to thank Jaskier for so dramatically changing his reputation, but he tries. He is no longer the Butcher of Blaviken and the Sword Swallower, he is Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.


End file.
